Page 38 of Vallaverse: Twist
“Cable's Towing Service,” a female voice sings into the phone.
“Is Barry available?”
There's a brief hesitation, then she answers. “Just a moment. I'll see if he's free.”
She comes back on the line a few seconds later. “He said this better be—and these are his words, not mine—that asshole Valla who owes him thirty dollars. Are you the asshole Valla?”
I laugh. “I am. And he owes me. Can he talk?”
“He's out on a call, but I can pass a message.”
“Will you ask him if he can do a pick up?”
“One second.” She's back a moment later. “He just needs the address. And he says you owe him more than thirty now.”
Chapter Eighteen
Laz
It's been three weeks. Three entire, godforsaken, miserable fucking weeks. There's a reason I could never go through with getting all the R out of my system—it's the utter nauseating torture the past three weeks have been. I've been sick. I've been sore. I've been weak and dizzy. I've been angry, unbelievably angry. I've been in the darkest, most desolate state that I have ever been in. I thought I was going to be in endless agony until last night.
Last night, as I was curled around myself under the pile of blankets on my bed, I think I felt the final drop of poison leak out of me. I know that's impossible, but the unease I've carried with me for the past several years just suddenly dropped away, all at once. I swear it sounded like a bell. I'm not going to fool myself into thinking it's over. I'll probably suffer to some degree for the rest of my life, or at least for a while to come, but last night was the first night in a very long time that I slept without waking up to pain or sickness or emptiness.
And Brooks was right there with me.
He's slept in the recliner in my room since he brought me here. It's becoming home, slowly and gradually. I don't know what to think of that or how to feel about it. I never thought I'd be back here with him. The house doesn't matter. Brooks is the home I abandoned, and he is the home I've returned to. I just feel so fucking guilty. It's eating me alive.
He shouldn't have to suffer along with me, but I know he has. I canfeelhim, so I know he can feel me. He's been with me through every horrible minute of this, and he's as steadfast as he ever was. I don't deserve him, and he certainly doesn't deserve me. Nobody deserves that mess, but here he is, still cleaning it up.
We haven't discussed that night. I don't remember it. I don't remember anything about that night. The last thing I remember is Kris smiling at me as she loosened the tourniquet, and then everything fell away. I know I begged her to stop. As soon as she started looping it around my arm, I knew I was in trouble. Tourniquets are for large doses or long doses, and we'd agreed not to do either of those ever again. I wasn't surprised, though. I knew it was coming.
I wish I remembered Brooks marking me. I know it didn't happen the way it usually happens with claiming marks. I was dying. Fucking and knotting wasn't an option. But the bond took, nonetheless. Brooks has been a constant nudge in the corner of my consciousness, and likely my unconsciousness, since I woke up in the hospital wishing I was dead.
Brooks feels...
He feels...
I don't know. Overwhelmingly positive most of the time, but there's no way he's walking around on rainbows and butterflies right now. No, he's internally lying for my benefit. That's why I'm in a mood this morning. His oddly sunny disposition. He canbe as happy as he wants to be, but I know he isn'tthathappy all the time, even when times are good. I can't ask him about it, either. He'd just lieexternally, all in the name of protection. I don't want him to lie. I'm the liar in this relationship; there's no room for him in the role.
He's sitting across the table right now, humming like an idiot and drinking the world's strongest coffee while he reads over some paperwork. What even is that paperwork? I haven't asked him about what he actually does for work, and now I can't because I haven't yet, and that's shit of me.
“Lazarus.”
I look up from my plate of eggs. He's staring at me over the top of his stack of papers, brows arched majestically. “Hmm?”
The corner of his mouth threatens to lift. “Something on your mind?”
“No,” I huff.
He puts his papers down beside his coffee and gives me his full attention.
“What do you do?” I blurt.
He licks his lips and smiles at me. “I spend ill-gotten money on good deeds.”
“Trying to get into heaven?”
His smile twists into a smirk. “No more than anyone else.”
